section7mfu | Like a flower in the sun

The terrible sound of explosions died away, leaving smoke and flames around and inside the house; the bodies of several people could be seen strewn about the site, including, appallingly, those caught in crossfire. The two agents, dressed for the operation in camouflage, emerged from their place of concealment and approached the building warily, weapons in hand.

Only one part, the far end, was on fire. Carefully avoiding two bodies, they climbed the steps to the slightly open front door, and still wary, pushed it open and entered. The hallway was clear of smoke, so far; they moved on, glancing into a sitting room – empty. Ahead was a kitchen; through the open door they could see a hob, and cupboards.

The man leading stepped over the threshold and stopped suddenly, with a little intake of breath; his partner bumping into him, looked beyond him and saw what had startled him so much.

It was a child. Sitting on the floor, staring, her eyes vacant, her face grey; unmoving, unblinking, paralysed with shock.

“Jesus... Poor little kid…” Dumbfounded, they looked at each other. “Hell, I think I know who those people outside must be. What is she, about two? What do we do?” The child seemed unaware of them. “We can’t leave her, we’ll have to take her with us.”

The slighter of the two opened his camouflage jacket and released the strap of his holster. He bent down and gently picked her up. He held her close inside the jacket, pressed to the regular, confident heartbeat within, feeling the trapped bird of the child’s own heart fighting to escape her fragile ribcage.

His partner heard him whispering soothing endearments against the child’s hair – it didn’t matter that they were in Russian: “Dushenka moya; malenka rybka; lapushka.” The soft sibilants rustled in her ear, and found a nerve to take them into her brain. For a while there was no reaction, the child made no response; then, slowly, the frightened bird ceased to fight, was back on its perch, its quivering wings settling now to the rhythm of his heart.

His partner left him sitting with the child on his lap, and went to explore the rest of what was possible to see of the interior.

When he returned, he entered softly; they hadn’t moved. The child’s eyes were closed; his partner’s arms were wrapped around her and he was humming to her. Well I never, he thought, the man’s found a new métier – child whisperer.

“The other end of the house is well alight. We have to leave. Are you OK with her?”

“Sure.”

They were careful to check the surroundings before leaving the building, but all was quiet. The child’s face hidden in his shirt, he carried her past the bodies of her parents. And leaving the team to clear up, they drove away. The child remained quiescent on his knees, utterly silent, hardly breathing. Occasionally she blinked, but there was no recognition of anything around her. He hoped the warmth of his body would protect her from the dangers of shock but he was at a loss to know how to wake her from her catatonic state. Perhaps it would be better not to try.

“Maybe there’ll be someone around who knows the family. Knows a relative or something,” said his partner.

“I hope so. We can’t take her to New York.”

**************

Explaining the situation to the hotel staff produced some alarm but also some sympathetic attempts to help. The child was clearly reluctant to be taken from his arms; he felt a tiny grip on his shirt.

“Leave her with me. She’ll come to no harm, don’t worry. You can have her to bath when she’s ready.” Aware that she might need to be removed for more urgent needs, he asked for diapers or towels, so that she could stay in his arms.

His partner watched him with continuing surprise. He’d never seen that tender expression on his friend’s face before – after all, the man had just killed several people, apparently without scruple. How did he know what to do with a terrified child after that?

The hotel staff suggested places to try in town where there might be someone who knew the child’s family, and as it was getting towards evening, he set off on what was becoming an increasingly desperate mission. The thought of having to spend the night with a traumatised child was more than a little nerve-wracking.

*************

The child moved slightly, and began a faint whimpering. He thought he could guess what the problem was – the towels might not be enough. He rose with her and took her into the bathroom. She turned her head and met his eyes as he held her over the toilet. “Hush,” he said softly, not wanting to frighten her with the deep tones of his normal voice, “you’re safe.”

He cleaned her up, washed his hands, not without difficulty – she was still in his arms – and restored her to the comfort of his heart. She continued to look into his face, wonderingly now. A small hand touched his cheek experimentally. He took it gently and planted a kiss in its palm and pressed it to her lips. He smiled at her surprise and her face opened like a flower in the sun. It was almost painful, the sensation under his ribs, in the core of his being. What on earth must fatherhood be like…

“Do you want to sleep, sweetheart?” he asked her. “Come then, I’ll sing to you.”

They were both asleep on the bed when his partner returned. He opened the door quietly, not wanting to alarm the child, and saw them. Supported in the crook of his friend’s arm, the child lay relaxed, her own arms around his neck. Two fair heads, close together on the pillow, their faces peaceful.

He turned to the woman behind him and put a finger to his lips before ushering her in. Together they looked down at the sleeping pair. He spoke his partner’s name. The blue eyes flew open, softened in sleep from their normal keen blaze; he lay quite still and the child in his arm remained oblivious as his questioning gaze moved to the woman in the room.

“This is Marsha, she’s the kid’s aunt. She’s come to take her away – she’ll look after her.”

“That’s good,” he said, with seeming unconcern. He sat up cautiously, holding the sleeping child against his shoulder. “I’ll carry her down to the car for you and hand her over when you’re settled. Is that OK?”

The child woke as they went out into the cool air of the night. She pressed her face to his and sighed. “Here’s your Aunt Marsha,” he whispered. “Look, she’s waiting for you.” The little face turned to the woman holding out her arms, and puckered. “Hush, dushenka, hush. You’re safe.” The child’s arms were tight round his neck, her face pressed to his cheek, and he continued to whisper to calm her.

Marsha approached and gently stroked the child’s back, “Hello honey – you can come home with me, now. You’ll be safe, we’ll look after you. Would you like to say goodbye to the nice man?”

He felt tears on his cheek. “She’ll look after you, lapushka, you’ll be safe with her,” he repeated, and gently detaching her arms from about his neck, once again kissed a little hand. Her grave eyes not leaving his, she put the hand to her lips, then pressed it to his; he smiled at her and she let him pass her to her aunt.

***********

There was a profound silence after they’d gone. “She’ll be OK, now.”

“I hope so.”

“What was her name, again?”

“I don’t know.”

He glanced at the silent man beside him.

“They say kids forget.”

“Yes... It’s not true.”

“How about you, my friend?”

“I won’t forget either.”

**************************************